


Keeping Score

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Canon Related, Day Off, Established Relationship, Fluff, French Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Misha's mouth is rated M, Multi, Neck Kissing, Outdoor Adventures, Picnics, Sports, frisbee, pda all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the reports that Cockles and their families played Frisbee together in the park last year, before or around Misha's birthday:</p><p>“Oh, it’s on, Jackles.”</p><p>“Bring it, Mish.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Score

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know Frisbee is capitalized?? Weird...
> 
> Enjoy!

Keeping Score

“You are _not_ using your child as leverage.”

“Oh, but I am,” Misha says as Maison hobbles toward him in an explosion of giggles. He picks her up by her marshmallow feet and as effortless as a buttered sock, tosses her over his shoulder. In no time, they’re spinning in circles, Misha reproducing the sound of a helicopter taking flight.

Jensen almost loses composure baring witness to such sight as he gestures to the basket. “Still doesn’t count.”

The weather’s due for a day like this with precipitation at a steady -200%. The grass beneath them is rich in height and just sticky enough to roll down (ahem, not that he and Jared have ever done that before), and the salty smell of the ocean is just enough to open his nasal cavities.

“You sure?” Misha tests, inching closer to him with Mais still in his arm and how did he hijack his Frisbee? “Because last night, as I recall, you told me I had some _big_ numbers.” Misha uses the flat of his Frisbee to give him a swift slap on the ass. Then there’s an unnecessary wink sending shockwaves through his body. “I should know, I kept score of how many times you screamed for them.”

Disc Golf = 1. Jensen = 0.

Maison’s the first to pierce the tension with a Hello Kitty knife: “Daddy’s bei-en gross again!”

“Stop being gross, honey!” Vicki and Dani yell in tandem across the park. It’s so apathetic, Jensen could laugh. _Could_ being the key word.

Despite their wives’ attempts to keep the peace, Mais wriggles out of her father’s gasp like a worm on a hook and scampers to her mom and brother.  

Sister, too, if you count Justice. And by God, Elsa better watch out because there’s a new princess in town. Jensen’s proud the fish braid he wove into her hair, spun like Rumpelstiltskin’s gold, is still intact. She’s also wearing the pink floral dress with the white ribbon wrapped around her like a real-life Christmas present.

Jensen’s going to miss the days when she fires her fashion consultant.

Immediately, a smile tugs his lips as he watches her hold her little hand out, offering the last of her chocolate ice cream to Mais.

“Are you sure she’s your kid?” Misha asks beside him. Jensen snatches his Frisbee. “I’m serious! Dani’s fully capable of handling your demon sperm, but I’m _convinced_ JJ’s the byproduct of a surrogate. I mean, she’s so nice and actually cares about the well-being of other people—”

Jensen’s mind is already reeling like a film tape with lovey-dovey images, so it’s no surprise he captures the greatest take of them all. Misha responds eagerly as Jensen drinks him in with his hand. It’s so easy, like eating a watermelon. The gentleness of his lips, sucking the seeds Misha has to offer, the saccharine, mouth-watering taste coasting his tongue, the shape Misha’s mouth replicates… Life truly does imitate art.

It’s almost as easy as the Frisbee that jangles in the basket.

Disc Golf = 1. Jensen = 2.

“Oh c’mon!” Misha whines before shoving him away. “ _Oh,_ it’s on, Jackles.”

“Bring it, _Mish._ ”

Misha steals another Frisbee, this one blue to match his eyes, and _fuck him sideways_ for being more attractive than the general disc golf-playing population. Jensen watches in awe as Misha’s face scrunches in untainted concentration, leaving no room for his tongue. His arm, browned and round as bowling balls roll down a bumper-free zone, leaving the Frisbee to glide through the air.

It’s a genuine attempt, but no dice. The Frisbee veers too far east of the basket and lands in a puddle.

“Fucking goddamn piece of shit—you hacked into these things!” he curses with an accusing finger.

Jensen wheezes through a laugh that has him balancing his weight on his knees. “How would I, Mr. _Tech_ nose Intolerant, as you put it, know how to hack into a set of plastic discs?”

“I don’t know you’re the one who brought them. Maybe you had Jared hardwire some-some, anti-Misha—”

“Dmitri.”

Misha’s eyes taper like crushed blueberries. “What?”

“Dmitri,” Jensen corrects, remnants of a grin still plastered on his face. “We refer to you as Dmitri.”

Those blueberries would’ve turned into a heart-healthy shake by now: “You do not.”

“We don’t, I just wanted to see that little nose scrunch you do.”

“You fucker.”

“That’s a little too apropos, even for you, Mish.”

_“Mais!”_

“Okay, alright,” Jensen says, waving his hand as he approaches his discouraged boyfriend with another disc, “here, let’s pick it up again.” Misha’s eyes are still squashed by the pressure of his ever-growing frustration.

“Jensen I don’t see how—” Jensen’s front latches onto Misha’s back like a leech, sucking the misplaced rage out of Misha’s body until he feels him lean into the new contact. They harness enough energy between the two of them to power a nationwide AC for the population of Vancouver. “ _Oh.”_

Jensen’s arm presses against Misha’s as he weaves their fingers together like a fish braid before bringing it in direct line of the basket. With Misha gripping the Frisbee, Jensen makes a conscious effort not to tease the hairs on his neck _too_ much. “It’s just like shooting. You’ve gone shooting, right?”

“Yeah, with you, but I was looking at your ass the whole time,” Misha wavers. Jensen preens in the form of a feather light kiss on his nape.

“Alright, well, it’s like a target, you just gotta match your eyesight with the bullseye and—”

“Jensen, I swear to God, just show me how to fucking throw your hacked Frisbees—”

Jensen chuckles, head bobbing just over Misha’s right shoulder as he aligns his view with what Misha’s seeing. With the wind hitting his back like a feather duster, it’s a clear shot. One he takes ( _they_ take) with little wrist action and a whole lot of peppered kisses because the disc gets caught in the basket chains like a fly in a spider’s web.

Misha’s too lithe beneath his grasp to properly celebrate by then, though. Jensen’s not complaining. Unless complaints sound a little more open-mouthed than they normally do.

Then again, Misha’s never been one for normal anyway.

Disc Golf = 1. Jensen = 10,000.

 

 

 


End file.
